A brick could be slid on a wood floor, like a rolling bowling ball, in an attempt to fill the seconds between swallows of beer.

Watching two cows have sex is the most magical experience at Cereal Land.

The cup was empty, but I didn’t drink it because nothing is impossible to drink. So instead, I drank nothing. Nothing is impossible to drink, except nothing.

A brick is slow, when it’s lying on the floor. But fast when just thrown.

I want to have sex at 120—pm and years old.

I ran over a dog last night on my way home, and then I wondered what my wife had made for dinner. The two events are disappointingly not connected. Ah, but that’s life, no?

A blanket could be used to put the war in warm. Just paint the blanket like an American flag, and then try to convince the world that they are cold and need us to stop...

I’m like a praying mantis, except not so devout. And I make love like a monk in meditation, which can often be confused with being asleep.

I wish I could climb the corporate ladder like I could climb a tree, but I can’t, because I’m afraid of heights. And bark.

A brick could be used as a device to deliver bad news. Sometimes it’s better to be blunt.

If I’m having sex during an earthquake, would I get a refund on all those quarters I just put in the vibrating bed?

The only nutritional sustenance I need is praise, flattery, and potassium in the form of bananas.

A blanket can be a meditation device. If the blanket is white, and you stare at it, you can blank out your mind and find peace within yourself.

Once you finish having sex, what is there to do but start over?

After Paris, Jacksonville has come to be known as the City of Love. Not right after Paris, like number two on the list, but surely Jacksonville would be included on such a list, even if...

If I hung out with Van Gogh, I don’t know what we’d do. We’d just play it by ear, I guess.

I peel cats like I pet oranges. And I often snuggle with watermelons, sometimes with the intent of making love.

My parents always said that knowledge was the best gift they could give me, probably because they were too cheap to buy me Christmas or Birthday presents.

A brick could be used to bestow gratitude upon your favorite (or least favorite) politician. Let them know your approval level by giving them the gift that says both Thank You—and Fuck You.

When I heard footsteps and saw nobody, I knew I was seeing a ghost. Seeing the invisible is like dreaming about drinking coffee to wake up, and that’s why I’ve never made love in the...

I don’t think that taking off my eye patch would increase my night vision by 100%, but it would go a long way towards relieving my wedgie.

A brick could be used to help America make money. Trust me, this is smarter than letting a central bank like the Federal Reserve make all the money.

Francis Bacon has the most delicious last name ever, followed closely by Johnny Scrambledeggs. I make love like those two guys make breakfast out of family reunions.

On savings: A dollar here, a dollar there. Over time, it adds up to two dollars.

I am the burrito wrapped up in a blanket. Eat my warmth.

The pain I felt when I lost my glove was nothing compared to the pain I felt losing my hand as well.

If you’re going to hold a grudge, at least put on an oven mitt before you pick it up.

A brick can be neither good nor bad. A brick just is. And it isn’t, because I just stole it from you, which is good for me, and bad for you.

Is it easier to get you to do what I want with a fist to your face, or a gentle pat on the back and a handshake? Let this be a lesson in power.

Standing at a urinal, I hold my penis like a cold beer. You look thirsty and sober, so can I get something to drink? You’re expression, is it dehydration—or is it love?

A blanket could be used to not only make promises, but fulfill them too. They’re so soft and warm, how could they not be used in this manner?

Knocking on a door is so violent. Talk on the door. Try to get it to open up through communication, not violence.

That’s where I went to buy my last watch.

The government wants to be aware of all your movements—probably including your bowel movements. Ain’t that some shit?

The girl of my dreams got married to someone else. But that’s OK. I don’t need her beside me to keep her locked in the dungeon of my heart.

I don’t just want to be the best in my field, I also want to be the greenest.

It was queer meeting him there—odd I mean—and what are the odds we’d meet at a gay bar? I was there to meet a woman, I think.

I write music—for whales. You can’t hear it, but rest assured, it’s excellent. Mostly they’re love songs. Listen with your heart—but be careful, because my songs have an irregular beat.

I want to buy you a pair of YAP, or Yellow Admiration Pants (they have no crotch), and have you talk dirty to me.

The moon is an orbital albino, and it gets tons of sunlight, so I propose Operation Sunscreen, where astronauts coat the surface of the moon with a protective layer of sunscreen. If you care about...

I had a dream where I drank my own grandma. What she was doing disguised as a bottle of booze isn’t entirely clear to me.

A brick could be dropped on your mother-in-law’s head from the height of 66.6 feet. You know, as a going away present.

At my last birthday party I had fun and really let myself go. Literally. I opened the cages where I keep my clones and I let myself go, all 333 versions of myself.

The cycle of parental disapproval begins at dawn. That’s why I have to get up five minutes before sunrise, so I can berate my grandpa like he was my own child.

My name is Hope Happy, and I am a pessimist.

It’d be quite absurd to equate a math equation with love. But that is exactly what I’ve done. I’m giving a four-hour lecture on it on Friday night. Can I count you among the attendees?

All the Debbies in the world are too big to be little. Makes me wish I were just two inches taller, you know? I blame my dad—or the mailman. Not sure yet. I get the...

World’s Smallest Indoor Cocktail Party” takes place in an Alaskan igloo when two midgets and an Inuit get together to drink a combination of cologne, hairspray, and cough syrup.

I don’t just love you, I love you a 9.7. I would love you a 10, but who do you think you are, Greg Louganis?

The smell of silence looks like the ghost of my grandpa. My love is deeper than six feet of dirt, and considerably easier to shovel.